


Seattle

by mermycat



Category: inFAMOUS (Video Game)
Genre: Delsin being stupid (and evil) (and remorseful), Gen, Other, Reggie being so done with it all (sad big bro), brothers being stupid, fingers-crossed that this even makes sense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-31
Updated: 2014-03-31
Packaged: 2018-01-17 15:53:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1393540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mermycat/pseuds/mermycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Delsin fights. Good intentions. Bites his teeth down hard, aims, never rips a band-aid off slow. If he died in the morning it'd brighten the place, and he knows it, feels it the same way that he feels his own frustration and inadequacy. Bites and burns and vents, one time stopping long enough to just look at his knuckles. Sometimes, he wants to brighten the place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seattle

You drop to the ground then. Give up.

And no, it’s not a thing that a tireless-victor-of-the-people would do. Bite down too hard on a few too many rough words, choke on them rough because they dry your throat up, like before Reggie even stops leaping off his own uncontrolled breathes you've gone half ways back to becoming minerals again – and you don’t care about what it is that you had to say anymore. You’re just wanting to let go from the knee’s and press the heels of your palms over your eyes.

_Well, Del, this is it_

And no, you don’t feel a whole lot like the tireless-victor-of-the-people, goddamn; you never ever did. But you feel more pre-smoke-flu-you than you’d done in months. Hit the ground landing on your back, feeling cold on the back of your knees and elbows, dampness a creeping sensation through the black arms of your stained hoodie. Nausea in the center of your gut that gets worse in waves – ‘least your mouth isn't so dry as your throat is, washing out the filmy aftertaste with saliva as the urge to wrench climbs.

You want to give it all back to Hank.

You want Hank alive, you want that truck not to crash; you want the billboard of Reggie’s fuckin’ grin and his hand around your wrist when he drags you in for vandalism to be the big concern of the day. This’ll go down on your permanent record, right, ‘cause things like paper records really mattered then. Fetch could go on shooting filth through the temple and Eugene can wash the color out of his face behind a screen and Reggie can be a prick of an older brother and everyone breathes; in the end everyone inhales real deep and lets it out again.

You want to know a lot less about everything than you do, because more than ever before, knowing too much these days just make things less real – less focused. You let your head fall back in the grass, in the dirt swollen with rain water, drawing puddles almost lilac colored. Reggie sits down someplace beside you, puts his head in his hands.

You blink. Open your mouth; a second of a crease between your brows like that waste of air is going to go someplace. It doesn’t.

_I know we’re not happy here_

“Did I fuck up real bad this time, Reg.” You say.

And that doesn’t feel good, like letting emotions out normally does. But nothing feels good anymore without also feeling bad. It just feels like it is what it is. There is life around here, people go to sleep and they wake up in the morning, they work; you vent yourself through chain-link mesh and rut deep veins the color of neon juke-box juice into the cement of the sidewalks, in between the bloodier points – the jugulars – _my coming of age where I guess I just burned up instead_. And if you died because of this, or because of any stupid thing, there would still be life around here. It gets confusing.

Behind a sigh your brother says, “You got good intentions. This I know for sure.”

While it’s something, better than silence on your busted head but only just, it doesn’t mean anything. You swallow on something thick and sour, knowing you are going to throw-up in another minute. Your fingers dig impressions into the earth but it feels unsteady underneath you, none of the firmness that you’d been so sure of – if you drifted off the point of the needle you’d just keep going, losing sense of substance and shape in between the firmaments of different elemental states. You would just smoke out and Reg would always remember the last time that he sees his brother in the park, the orange and white sparks cracking under the soles of his shoes and the ashen breathe, smoke excised, before he salutes two fingers, then one.

It’d be a bitter-sweet kind of memory, the best you’d had since Reg wrapped one steady arm across your chest and the sliding adams apple in your throat, and says – _you are my brother – you are my brother_ – and you still repeat those words in your head to yourself, like a litany. But they feel so old and worn and used, like you’d bent them out of meaning and sent them out all over the place, and they aren’t just yours to use anymore. You can’t hold the weight of them in your hands anymore.

Good intentions that got twisted in a coal furnace _, that about sums you up, Del._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading :)


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